Farewell Mother
by StuckInThePast
Summary: A look at a relationship I thought was horribly mistreated in Season 2.


_The one thing that really bothered me in Season 2 – more than the musical episode or the Jane storyline or Daisy/William or anything like that – was the way Mrs Bates' death was treated. John's reaction, from what we saw, was basically "hey, babe, my mum snuffed it, so we got a load of dosh", which seemed just a tad OOC to me. This is my brief attempt to rectify it, while tying it in with the attitudes presented in the show. And hiding from NaNoWriMo. Anyway, it's a little messy, but I hope you enjoy! There may be more of an exploration of the relationship, but I'm not sure of anything like that just yet. I'm still recovering from 2.8._

"Mr Bates? Telegram for you."

John took the telegram from Mr Carson and settled into his seat beside Anna. He could feel her brewing interest, and he could feel her trying desperately hard not to ask him. He appreciated that. It had taken a long time for them both to reach the point where she knew he would tell her what she needed to know.

And then the world came crashing down.

He didn't tell anyone what it said. He didn't do anything, sitting there in frozen shock for a long minute before he unsteadily got out of his seat and left the room. He could feel Anna's eyes burning on him, but in this moment that was the last thing he was worried about.

He managed to get upstairs and into his room before allowing himself to react. When he knew he was safe, he dropped the telegram on his desk and fell back onto the bed, burying his face in his hands in a futile attempt to control the tears that flooded out, drowning him in sorrow for what felt like hours' worth of crying over this so painful loss.

_Mother._

Her health had been a concern to him in recent weeks, but he'd had no idea it was this bad. And now she was gone, and he hadn't even said goodbye. He should have known it was worse than she let on. He might have taken care of her, as a son should. If only… he ought to have known.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, and he didn't know how long the gentle knocks were made on his door before, finally, his stubbornness gave out (for he was stubborn now, even in his utter grief) when Anna's voice called for him.

He felt like he was being dragged back to reality. For once in his life, he just didn't want to be anywhere near Anna. Couldn't she just leave him alone? If this night was all he'd have to grieve properly then he had to do it right. His mother always was one for doing things right.

Anna's voice called to him again, and there was no choice. He had to let her in, so he got up and quickly washed his face, knowing it would do little good. When he finally opened the door to her, it felt like a flood of comfort and torture all at once.

"What's happened?" she asked softly, reaching for his face with one hand, and his heart with the other. And he was reminded of the last time she called on him here, years ago. She had given him such comfort that night. If anyone could get him through this, she could. And he didn't care that she shouldn't have been able to get to him; in that moment, he didn't even care to tell her to leave before she was caught. There was only one thing on his mind right now.

"My mother," he managed, and took a hissing breath. "She's dead."

The look on Anna's face felt so honest and open, as she always was. Even through the powerful blur of his tears, he could see sorrow on her face – sympathy for his suffering, but also sorrow in her own rights. He remembered that Anna and his mother had met once, and from what he understood, had got on very well. It was, in its way, a relief to see that Anna grieved her, too. But then her face changed a little, and he knew she had decided to focus her attention on comforting him. He was glad of it. He needed her comfort right now.

"I wish I knew what to say. I'm so sorry."

He found that a tear had spilt from one eye and was trickling down his cheek. With anyone else it would have embarrassed him, but Anna, who had changed him so much these past four years, and had made him her own, how could it?

"Thank you," he managed with something between a harsh laugh and a stubborn sob, and all at once she was wiping his tears away and moving closer and enclosing him in the haven of her arms, letting him release the emotion within him and comforting him with soothing movements and soft words.

"Sorry," he murmured after a few minutes, pulling back and resorting to a handkerchief to dry himself off.

"Hey, none of that. I know what it's like; you shouldn't deal with it alone. I don't want you to." She stretched up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, and he was ashamed that it made him feel a little better.

He gave her a soft smile of appreciation. "Thanks."

Anna's hands had slid down his arms to meet his hands, and he loosened his hold on her, signalling that he needed to be alone for a while. She understood, and gave him a small smile. "You know where to find me, if you want someone to talk to, or a shoulder to cry on, or anything… You know I'm here for you, don't you?"

"I do," he promised softly, bowing his head to kiss her cheek in return.

She squeezed his hands one last time, and then she was gone.

He might not see her again for a while; he would have to go to London tomorrow to fix everything – his mother had had nobody else – and with the written word, he would naturally shrink back a little. But she had reminded him of the future, and his mother was not one to wallow in misery, let alone allow others to do it. She would want his happiness and future secure, and for her sake he could put even more towards his blossoming relationship with Anna. And then there was the other thing in the telegram. The thing that could turn his life around. Vera…


End file.
